“Aye. The child dinna recover from the beating, I suppose.”
“Bastard,” Patrick hissed, picking up his pace.
Malcolm placed a hand on his brother’s forearm. “He’ll be dealt with. Keep yer anger in check, Paddy. We’ve a plan to carry out.”
His brother nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself until they reached their destination.
“I only hope the worthless whoreson tries to run,” Patrick muttered, pushing open the door for Malcolm to enter.
Malcolm didn’t mind admitting, at least to himself, that the same sentiment had crossed his mind more than once in the last hour. His hands fairly itched to mete out some well-deserved punishment.
He nodded to the men who stood guard duty outside the room as he entered, stopping to verify all was as he’d asked.
Patrick had gathered everyone together in the laird’s solar—hissolar—before coming to get him. Roland Lardiner lounged in a chair by the fire, with two of Malcolm’s best men on either side of him, of course. His lackey, Shaw, fidgeted in the corner, also guarded by two men.
The lovely Agneys had taken a seat near the wall, as far away from her father as she could get.
Malcolm opted to stand, Patrick at his left shoulder.
“I’ve called you here to share with you my decisions about yer future.”
“You’ve no right to be passing judgment on me,” Lardiner snarled. “As Agneys’s father, I’m the rightful laird here. When she delivers the old laird’s male child, it’ll be me who sees to the lad’s training and welfare.”
“Truly?” Malcolm asked, managing to keep his voice light and pleasant. “Would you be seeing to his welfare in the same manner as you saw to the old laird’s?”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Lardiner asked, straightening in his chair
“Only that you murdered yer laird. Pushed him down the stairs, according to his granddaughter and her witness.”
“Her witness?” Lardiner sneered. “A child she claims saw this happen. And her naught but a madwoman at that.”
“Perhaps. But the lad survived the fire and told us of what he’d seen in his own words. And even had he not, since I married that madwoman a fortnight ago, I am forced to give credence to her word.”
“You did what?” Agneys made it almost out of her chair before she caught herself. “My apologies for my outburst, my laird. I had not heard any rumor.”
Lardiner glared, his eyes darting from person to person in the room. “And welcome to her you are. It will do you no good. When my Agneys delivers the old laird’s son...”
Malcolm had had enough of this.
“There will be no son. No bairn at all, as a matter of fact. Yer daughter is no with child.”
“You lie!” Lardiner yelled, attempting to rise from his chair but finding the hands of his guards holding him in his seat.
“No. You murdered yer laird too soon, Lardiner. And you’ll have to answer for that. Murder’s a premeditated breach of the king’s peace. The justiciar ayres will meet in a few months. We’ll make sure yer brought before them to answer for yer crimes.”
“I had no part in what he did to our good laird,” Shaw sniveled from his spot in the corner.
“No, I ken the truth of that.” As he’d hoped, the rat was ready to turn. “But you had a hand in the other deaths, did you no?”
“There were no other deaths,” Lardiner snarled.
“But there were. My good wife’s guardian, beaten before he was thrown into the pit, I believe? He dinna survive that. His death is on yer head as well as yer
master’s.”
“And the child,” Patrick said roughly.
“Aye,” Malcolm agreed. “The child who witnessed the old laird’s murder. Lardiner beat the boy severely and then you—” He smiled at Shaw, but he felt nothing even approaching humor. “You tried to burn him alive in my wife’s cottage.”
